


a shape moving rapidly

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Gen, Ghost Stories, Haunting, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23148046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: There is a ghost haunting a bookshop in Soho...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 136
Collections: The Snake Pit





	a shape moving rapidly

There is a ghost haunting a bookshop in Soho.

The shop has been around for what seems like forever; the oldest occupants of the neighborhood remember it always being there, and the newest residents take their word for it. It occupies a sought-after corner market, and if gentrification had its way, it would have closed down long ago. It doesn’t fit with a twenty-first century ideal of London Curb Appeal, or any century’s Curb Appeal to that point. Miraculously, that particular corner in Soho has stayed a bookshop. It looks as though it was built about two hundred years ago and then stayed insistently stuck in that time period. The proprietor, when asked, insisted that all of its furnishings and wood paneling and window frames were original. When further questioned on the source for that information, all the proprietor had to say was — 

There is a ghost haunting a bookshop in Soho. 

More not than often, eternally potential customers of A. Z. Fell & Co. might be serenaded by the proprietor’s ancient gramophone. It, like its dusty interior and even dustier books, looks like it sprung up from the pavement outside: always a part of Soho, but not quite belonging to it. There might be Nina Simone or a Schumann symphony playing soundtrack to the shop’s inhabitants. More often than not, though, the bookshop is silent.

And that’s when the other sounds start.

There is rustling in the eaves and the floorboards. It could be mistaken for the rustling of pages, but the proprietor rarely allows for the bookshop’s customers to interact with the texts in the stacks. The whisper-movement starts beneath your feet or above your head or just out of your periphery. It doesn’t matter how fast you move to catch the source of the sound, you are always too late. 

That’s when the hissing starts. 

A low susseration in combination with the motion you can never catch sight of. You’ll get a crick in your neck from turning too quickly. The hissing gets louder.

You ask the proprietor what the  _ hell  _ that sound is, and all he has to say in return is—

There is a ghost haunting a bookshop in Soho.

If the looks and the sounds and the atmosphere and the lack of customer service weren’t enough to deter patrons from performing their patronly duty at Soho’s oldest establishment, there are hints of some... _ thing _ inhabiting the bookshop’s walls.

On a silent day, and most of the days are silent at A. Z. Fell & Co., there is a rustling under the floorboards. There is a hissing behind your ear. There is a devilish urge that rises up inside you to press your fingertips into the spines of the unorganized books and leave oily smudges. There is a prickling at the back of your neck, some ancient and anthropological awareness of some... _ one  _ watching your movements. You turn. There’s no one there. You swivel back to the spines as your own shivers, and you don’t know why you’re afraid of the color yellow.

The hissing continues.

It never stopped.

There is an influence that insinuates in your brain, something not of your own volition. Your knees bend and it’s either them or the floorboards creaking simultaneously. You reach for a spine— a collection of Robert Graves poetry — you don’t read poetry you’ve never read poetry you don’t even  _ like  _ poetry— and take the book out.

Eyes— gold bronzed sunshine marigold honeycomb yellow— stare back at you.

You scream, and all the proprietor has to say is—

There is a ghost haunting a bookshop in Soho. 

“Was that really necessary, darling?”

“Anssswer me thisss, angel.”

“Go on.”

“How many booksss have you sold recently?”

“How recent should I go back? I might have to check my inventory.”

“Anssswer the quessstion.”

“None. I’ve sold no books recently. There was that close call in the autumn with the Graves collection.”

“Yesss, I remember.”

“You can’t scare all my customers away, Crowley. I get horrific reviews on Yelp as it is.”

“You’ve never cared about reviewsss, angel. I’m doing you a ssservice.”

“Oh, is that it? You scare my potential buyers away, and I let you laze about?”

“Your ssshop gets better sssunshine in the afternoonsss.”

“You can’t fool me, you old serpent. Your flat is all sunshine due to your plants.”

“Do you want me to ssstop?”

“Hm?”

“Do you want me to ssstop ssscaring away idiots who try to buy booksss from you?”

“...”

“I thought not.”

“You devilish creature.”

“Ssscoot over, angel. You’re blocking the sssun.”

“Oh, climb up already, why don’t you? You’ve been eyeing my shoulders for I don’t know how long.”

There is a ghost haunting a bookshop in Soho, but he's allowed to be there. The proprietor invited him in. 

**Author's Note:**

> created for the Great Good Omens Snake Off, organized by the lovely summerofspock!
> 
> title comes from Ghost by Cynthia Huntington


End file.
